


I can take apart the remote control (and I can almost put it back together)

by feverbeats



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 16:25:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5463263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverbeats/pseuds/feverbeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr can feel it slipping through his fingers, the one perfect moment, the eye of the storm where they can both be right at the same time. (An itemized list of thirty years of disagreements.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can take apart the remote control (and I can almost put it back together)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belmanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/gifts).



**1800**

Just inches shy of the presidency. That's how close he was. For the second time, Jefferson and Hamilton have come between Burr and what he wants so desperately. But he can't even even berate Hamilton for it the way he wants to, because Hamilton is barely worth fighting.

Hamilton is like a ghost, these days. It's as if all the color has been washed out of him. The sad part is, it happened even before his son's death. The loss of his son didn't follow so closely upon the loss of his career that Burr missed which hurt him more.

They're standing in the street together for what Burr thinks might be the last time. There's only so much he can stand. He's still a swirling fire of rage and emotion for Hamilton, but everything he says comes out flat and cold.

"You are a waste," Burr says, pronouncing each syllable carefully around the rage. Every word is exquisitely painful. "You're nothing, and now you never will be."

"Don't come at me because you're feeling some type of way," Hamilton says. He sounds like he's still human, but he's not.

The higher Burr climbs, the lower Hamilton falls, the more everything slots into place . . .

The worst it all feels. Burr has always known how much he had to lose, but he didn't think losing Hamilton would matter. He thought it was simply a given.

_What am I to you, Burr?_

Hamilton refused to be so many things. Burr's friend, his partner, any kind of lover he could hold onto. Keep refusing and what will you be left with, Alexander?

So Burr doesn't know. Still. But he knows what he is to Hamilton.

That night, he cleans his pistol and tries to understand how he could be doing what he's about to do.

**1797**

Hamilton spends all his time at work insulting Burr's politics and all his free time kissing him. It doesn't make sense. Burr can't separate the two that way. It doesn't stop him from kissing Hamilton back, but it stops him from enjoying it fully. There's only one thing he'll enjoy, and that's beating Hamilton. In whatever way.

So when Burr finds out that Hamilton is ruined, and that he's done it to himself, he can't breathe with elation for a moment. "You idiot," he whispers when he sees the paper.

But when he sees Hamilton face to face, it's harder. The man looks twice as bad as he did when Washington quit. Three times as bad as he did when Laurens died. (Which says a lot about Hamilton's priorities, if Burr is keeping track.)

They've run into each other in the park, which is odd, because neither of them usually has time to go there. Maybe Hamilton is purposefully putting himself in the way of people who'll spit at him. Burr wouldn't put it past him. He shakes off a thrill at the thought.

"Hamilton," he says. He tips his hat, because why not? Hamilton is going to hit him anyway, at some point. "Have you seen the papers?"

Hamilton doesn't answer, he just looks at Burr like he's sizing him up.

"It's funny, in a way," Burr pushes. God, Hamilton looks so wrecked. Has he slept this week? "You, getting caught with a woman."

Hamilton is almost vibrating with rage, but he's not saying anything. He's not saying anything at all.  
"Come home with me," Burr says.

And Hamilton does. The only kind part of Burr that's left says that he's doing Hamilton a favor. If not him, would Hamilton go home with someone worse?

In Burr's bed, they do everything Burr's ever wanted to do with Hamilton. Hamilton doesn't speak, just makes noises when Burr goes a little too hard.

Finally, Burr says, "I'm going to come inside you."

Hamilton recoils for a second, then settles back down under Burr.

It's interesting, Burr thinks. He always wondered when he would push Hamilton's pride too far and Hamilton would leave forever, like he should have done years ago. But no. Hamilton won't do it until Burr has left an indelible stain on his reputation.

Afterward, Hamilton dresses in silence, looking away. Burr doesn't see him for two weeks after that.

They used to like each other. Didn't they?

**1795**

All Burr wants is the presidency. Is that so much to ask? But he'll settle for the vice presidency, if that's what it takes. His campaign with Jefferson is going well, even if it feels like he's doing most of the work. The downside, of course, is that he has to work with Jefferson. And the biggest downside to _that_ is Hamilton.

Burr has just turned down Hamilton's invitation to come home with him for the third time in a week. Burr can't risk his career. He can't risk getting caught with Hamilton. It's clearly making Hamilton furious, which makes him try even harder. But no. Burr's got other things on his mind, and other things in his bed.

Everything comes to a head at a party Burr's hosting. It's more of a fundraiser than a party, but the only way he could get Jefferson up from Virginia where he's "campaigning" is to call it a party.

The best thing about Jefferson is also the worst thing: nothing bothers him. Burr could probably spit in his face and Jefferson would just laugh. The trouble with that is, it's almost impossible to keep ahead of him. Burr, despite his best efforts, cares far too much about far too many things.

Burr's been chatting people up all night, and it's exhausting, being this nice and being under this much scrutiny. He keeps catching glances of Hamilton (drinking wine, standing by someone else's wife, insulting Madison), who looks more and more angry as the night goes on. Finally, Burr ducks away from another senator and catches Hamilton at the window seat.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks.

Hamilton laughs. "Sure, this is the time of my life. I've been campaigning for that asshole Adams this whole night."

"You didn't have to come," Burr snaps.

"Well, for you," Hamilton says. Which could mean a lot of things.

Burr can feel things sliding into place. Hamilton is to stop hating him and start wanting him, he thinks. It was surprisingly easy, this time. Hamilton must be feeling desperate. He must know he's on the way out no matter what.

"You look good tonight," Burr says.

Hamilton tosses his head, and his hair falls into his eyes. Burr's breath catches in his throat.

"Wow, what am I interrupting?"

Hamilton whips around so fast it makes Burr's head spin. "Jefferson."

"Mr. Hamilton," Jefferson says. His eyes shine like he's found a secret. "What are you two getting up to?"

Burr doesn't need this. This is the absolute last thing he needs. "We were just having a chat. About Adams and his campaign."

Jefferson waves a hand dismissively. "Sure, whatever. John's a good guy, but he'd be a shitty president." There's no real malice behind it. Why would there be? Jefferson is supremely confident.

Hamilton is watching Jefferson with narrowed eyes. "So you don't think he'll win?"

"Nope."

"Funny," Hamilton says. "Because I was pretty sure you were counting on him winning, you coming in second, and Burr being left for dead."

"You're pretty sure about a lot of things," Jefferson says easily, without missing a beat. "But trust, I did not turn up for this. Not for some little mixed bastard to step on my shit."

Hamilton shoots to his feet and shouts incoherently, hands clenched.

" _Don't_ ," Burr says, grabbing his arm. Not at his party. "I know," he says quickly, practically in Hamilton's ear, "but don't. It's not worth it."

Something in that must get through to Hamilton, because he lowers his fists and says, in an even voice, "I guess I'll just have to step up my campaigning."

"Uh huh," Jefferson says. "You better. But it's not happening. I'm not tryna get fucked by some northern pussy." He flashes Hamilton a peace sign and steps away, back into the crowd.

"So you're Jefferson's shit now," Hamilton says after a second. He's got a closed, guarded look in his eyes, one Burr hasn't seen before.

Burr had hoped Hamilton missed that remark. But of course, nothing gets past him. "That's not how it is."

"I just want to know what you're _doing_ ," Hamilton demands. "I thought your reputation mattered to you."

Burr won't look at him. "Who has a better reputation than the vice president, Alexander? And that's what I'm going to be."

"So you hopped on Jefferson's dick?"

Something blazes up inside Burr. "No more than you did to pass your debt plan!" he spits. This is humiliating. This is a nightmare.

Hamilton recoils. "I--fuck you, Burr."

That's not a denial, though. Burr is sick with rage. "Nothing matters more to me than this position, Alexander. _Nothing_."

Hamilton pauses. Burr can see his hands shaking with emotion. "Assuming you get it."

"Where are you getting this from, anyway?"

Hamilton laughs mirthlessly. "Come on. You're playing naive now? Do you really think Jefferson is advocating for you in the South, Aaron?"

Burr's never heard his given name leave Hamilton's lips before. Why did it have to be like this?

**1796**

Hamilton bursts out into the street, eyes red, hair mussed. He almost knocks Burr down.

"Hey," Burr says. He grabs Hamilton's arm. "Where are you going?"

"I was talking to Washington." Hamilton sounds strangled. "Get out of my way."

Burr doesn't move. This is too fascinating. Besides, he's never seen Hamilton so crushed. "Are you going to cry?" he asks.

"Fuck you," Hamilton snarls. No teeth in it, though. "He's _quitting_ , did you know? Of course not. He'd wanna tell me first." Now he really does look on the verge of tears.

"Quitting?" Burr tries to force himself not to smile. His mind is already churning out ways this will help him. "Well, he's been trying to flee government since you sucked his dick long enough to convince him to be in it."

Hamilton doesn't even rise to the bait. He barely seems to hear Burr. "He's not running again. He's-- _leaving me_."

 _Oh_. "This isn't even about missing him," Burr says in horrified delight. "You're afraid you won't be able to crawl into the presidency now."

Hamilton wraps his arms around himself and shakes his head. "Doesn't matter. Even if he quits, he'll be around. He'll have a lot of influence. And if it's Adams next . . . It probably will be, huh? Or Jefferson. That's worse. But either way . . ."

And there goes Hamilton, already ticking through the options, saving himself. Burr would have offered comfort, if Hamilton had slowed down long enough to let him.

"You know," he says, "I'm thinking of running next time."

Hamilton looks him dead in the eye and laughs. "Good one. I'm fine with that. Split the Democratic-Republican vote for me so I can get a Federalist in."

Burr can feel it slipping through his fingers, the one perfect moment, the eye of the storm where they can both be right at the same time.

**1787**

Burr was wrong to think he could stop. The war is over, and they're respectable lawyers, and he can't stop. He sees Hamilton every single day, so how could he possibly be expected to keep his hands off him?

Burr used to believe there was nothing he wanted enough to go after it blindly. Now he knows that's not true.

It would be so much easier if he just wanted to fuck Hamilton, but there's more to it than that. They both lived through a war together, and Burr's still alight with relief.

It gets to be a habit, after each case they close. Then it gets to be a habit between cases. Eventually, it's almost every night. It's not like that's even easy. They're both married.

"Do you love your wife?" Hamilton asks, leaning toward him in the courtroom, speaking so quietly that only he can hear. It doesn't sound like a moral dilemma, just curiosity.

"More than anything," Burr says stiffly. "Don't you?"

Hamilton snorts. "She's a good friend."

Burr raises his eyebrows. "You're heartless."

"And you're fucking a man on the side."

Burr has no intention of explaining his relationship with Theodosia to Hamilton. For one thing, she _knows_. He's certain and Elizabeth Schuyler doesn't know.

All through the trial, Hamilton keeps casting him glances, talking over him, brushing up against him. Afterwards, Burr is almost panting with exhilaration and _rage_ , burning and incandescent. "What are you _doing?_ " he asks Hamilton, before they even reach the door of Hamilton's office, where they're supposed to be going for a celebratory drink.

All he wants is to tear Hamilton's clothes off and fuck him in the street.

"I was doing my job," Hamilton says. He laughs unpleasantly and gives Burr a slightly desperate look. Burr doesn't know what any of it means.

The second they're in the office with the door locked, Burr pushes Hamilton down over the desk and gropes him through his clothes. Hamilton doesn't protest.

"You're going to make me lose my mind," Burr spits.

Hamilton makes an agreeable noise. "Sure." He's hard already.

Burr curses. "What am I going to do with you?" he demands. "I want--"

"What do you want, Burr?"

The problem is he wants a lot of things. He wants the vice presidency. He wants the presidency. He wants it forever. He wants Hamilton to use his first name for once. He wants to own Hamilton completely. He wants--

But he can't have what he wants. None of it, unless he works for it.

So he takes the easiest thing and says, "Take your clothes off."

And unbelievably, Hamilton does.

Later, when Hamilton is facedown over the desk, naked and begging, Burr can almost convince himself that this is enough.

He has two fingers in Hamilton's ass. He leans over him. "I'll bet," he says softly, "that I could get my whole fist in your ass."

Hamilton lets out a string of curses, but he doesn't tell Burr no.

"I also bet," Burr says, poisonously and slowly, "that I could get you to do anything I wanted in this room."

There's a sudden silence. Then Hamilton sits up on his elbows and says, "The _hell_ you could."

But Burr knows if he tries, he can push and push until he owns all of him. Hamilton thinks he can't be owned. Burr's going to prove him wrong.

**1778**

Burr hasn't fucked anyone in a month. For him, that's a long time. He tells himself to think about the girls he's going to find next time they're stopping in a town, but instead he thinks about Hamilton.

Hamilton. Hamilton's mouth, Hamilton's hands, Hamilton's body. God damned Hamilton.

It's almost a hundred degrees on the day his regiment merges with Hamilton's. Hamilton is furious and on-edge, as always. He paces between the tents, complaining a mile a minute.

"Charles _Lee_ ," he keeps says. "He's a fucker, Burr. He's an idiot. But Washington still picked him over me. Why??"

Burr sighs. He knows why. Everyone fucking knows _why_. "He wants you close," he says, trying to keep his temper. "He wants you alive. He's a selfish old fool."

Hamilton stands in front of him, seething, but he doesn't say it's not true.

The worst part is these fights. The best part is that out here, it's just the two of them.

Except it isn't. Burr is about to suggest that maybe they should go somewhere private and talk, but Hamilton wheels around and says, his back to Burr, "I gotta go. I told Washington I'd finish his letters tonight."

 _Damn_.

He doesn't finish until it's dark out. It's still unbearably hot, and Burr has done his best to roll his sleeves up and drink all the water he's not saving. He can feel himself getting dangerously dizzy from the heat and he's just sitting still.

Hamilton marches out from Washington's tent and sits down next to Burr. He doesn't look at him.

There aren't any marks on Hamilton's body, at least not where Burr can see, but suddenly he just _knows_.

"Jesus," he says.

He'd heard rumors. But they suddenly seem true.

"Well," he says after a second. "Do you call him daddy?"

" _Burr_." Hamilton looks scandalized, but his cheeks are burning.

"You do," Burr says, delighted. "That's sick."

"Not out loud," Hamilton mutters.

"But he calls you son out loud," Burr persists. "I've heard him. Does it get your dick stiff, Alexander? Is that what you dream about?"

Hamilton flings himself to his feet, fists balled. "Fuck _off_." Not such a clever comeback.

"You can't fight me," Burr says, lightheaded with rage. "Daddy wouldn't like that."

Hamilton stares at him for a second, then walks away. Back to Washington's tent.

And it's not just Washington. That little _faggot_ Laurens is here, too, hanging all over Hamilton (it's different, Burr tells himself).

Burr is just settling down to sleep, if sleep is possible in this hell, when Laurens practically kicks his tent in.

"BURR!"

Burr grits his teeth. "Come in."

Laurens pushes inside, looking flushed—drunk? Maybe a little?—and sweaty.

"What the hell?" he demands.

Burr wants to strangle him. He's so beautiful in a hateful way Burr wants nothing to do with. How can Alexander--? How can he?

"I heard you were talking shit to Alex," Laurens says.

"I can talk shit to anyone I want," Burr says coolly, but through his teeth. "Is that all?"

Laurens stands there, fuming as helplessly as Hamilton did earlier. Finally, he says, "You're just pissed that we're all in and you're out."

"Excuse me?" Burr says.

Laurens sighs. "You know, we're in the club. Me and Lafayette and Alex. That we're his aides-de-camp and you're _shit_."

"Lieutenant Colonel isn't _shit_ ," Burr says, but he's burning.

"No," Laurens says, "It's not."

And he's gone again, as quickly as he came.

If it's not one thing, it's another. Burr's burning to put his hands on Hamilton, but people keep getting in the way. It's evening of the day before they're supposed to move out into the real battle, and it's hotter than ever, when Lafayette finds Burr.

He looks good. He always looks good, which is infuriating. Is he even sweating? Christ.

"I hear you're one of Washington's special favorites," Burr says by way of greeting. He relents a little. "How are you?"

Lafayette gives an exasperated little sigh. " _Ca va_. Much too hot, and Charles Lee is a general now. You?"

Burr shrugs dismissively. "Apparently in the wrong regiment. All the action is here. With Washington."

Lafayette narrows his eyes, waiting.

"Under Washington," Burr says. Why not be the person Lafayette thinks he is?

Lafayette laughs. " _Va te faire foutre_ , you son of a bitch. Just because you're jealous."

Then Burr has Lafayette by the collar, and they're both breathing hard, and if Burr doesn't stop now, he won't be able to take it back.

"Are you fucking him, too?" Burr demands. "Alexander, I mean."

Lafayette gives him an inscrutable look. "Sometimes you make me so sick."

Burr lets go. He lets go and walks away.

He doesn't think he's going to see Hamilton before the battle, but Hamilton comes to him late at night. In Burr's tent, they're finally alone together. Burr thinks he can smell everyone else on Hamilton's skin, but he's probably imagining it. His stomach writhes with jealousy. He wants to wring all of their necks, but Hamilton's most of all.

"Well?" he says. "Now that you're here, are we going to do this? Or is all of your energy spent?" He can't resist being nasty. His blood is boiling.

Hamilton scoffs. "You think I ever run out of energy? I can go all night."

"You're going to," Burr snaps. "I'm going to throw you on the goddamn ground and pound you till you cry."

Hamilton opens his mouth and then shuts it again, speechless for a remarkable second. Then he says, "We can't, though. I mean, I can't cry. Someone'll hear."

Burr curses under his breath. "Oh, now you care. Then let me touch you. Just that. You can keep your mouth covered."

Hamilton shoots him a betrayed, curious, furtive look. "Huh. Okay."

They end up kissing on the ground, too hot to go as hard or as fast as either of them prefers, hampered by the knowledge that there's a whole camp surrounding them.

Burr breaks the kiss to look at Alexander. His eyes are so clear. "If we die," he says.

"If we die, we die," Hamilton says. "What's worse is if we don't and have to figure out a way to live with this."

Burr doesn't say anything, because he knows he can't live with it. Just like Laurens can't. Just like Lafayette has never had to. And surely Hamilton can't be stupid enough to think they can still do this after the war?

With every bad decision they make (they don't stop kissing, they're naked below the waist, their hands are on each other), Burr becomes more and more certain that keeping this up after the war would be a disaster. He can't think straight around Hamilton. And Hamilton can't think straight at all.

Hamilton is practically sobbing now, his hips jerking against Burr. He's babbling under his breath, and Burr hears the word _love_ , but he ignores it. He ignores everything but how much Hamilton _needs_ him.

How did Burr get so lucky?

**1776**

"I've been trying to get you alone for days."

Hamilton is already a little weak-kneed with drink, but Burr is sure it's going to take more than that. "Uh huh," Hamilton says. "I'm pretty busy, Burr. If you wanted to see me, you should have—"

Burr puts his hand over Hamilton's mouth.

Hamilton has stopped trying to make a good impression in the past few weeks, so Burr lets go before he gets bitten.

" _Burr_ ," Hamilton says.

"Stop talking," Burr says. He can feel a laugh lurking behind his words, and he knows he can't laugh at Hamilton, but the urge is almost overwhelming. Hamilton is frustrated and uncertain and he wears his emotions on his face. His whole body is tensed up. Burr wants to shake him.

They're in Burr's apartment for once, but only because he promised to look over some of Hamilton's writing. It would be nice if Hamilton could at least pretend to need that.

Getting Hamilton alone is harder than it sounds. Burr feels like every time he turns around, one of _his_ so-called friends has his hands all over Hamilton. He doesn't even know who's worse: Mulligan, who supposedly likes woman? Laurens, who won't stop making cow eyes at Hamilton? Or--no, Burr knows. Lafayette is the worst.

He's going to drive all of them out of Hamilton's mind.

"I didn't bring you here to discuss your homework," Burr says. His heart is pounding, but Hamilton will never have to know that. It's partly the thrill, but partly nerves. If he's been reading Hamilton wrong—but he's not reading him wrong. He's been touching Hamilton on the shoulder, the knee, the waist for weeks. He can feel Hamilton's eyes on him every second. He's not wrong.

Hamilton sneers. "I didn't come here for _help_ with anything. I don't need that." He's not moving away from Burr, but he's not moving closer.

Burr shrugs and closes the space between them. "So why are you here?" He's close enough that he could just lean forward and kiss Hamilton, but he won't. That's not the game. Besides, it's somehow worse if he's the first to give in. There's still a part of him that's certain he's going to hell for this. If not hell, then certainly prison.

Hamilton tilts his head so it looks like he's watching Burr the way a dog would. Some kind of mutt. "I'm here because I think you're really cool."

Burr is glad the lights are low. He always blushes when Hamilton says shit like that. What is it supposed to mean? By all rights it should put Hamilton at his mercy, but it has the opposite effect.

"Come closer," Burr says, compromising.

Hamilton shrugs and steps into Burr's space. Burr can practically feel the energy radiating off him. He wants to grab him and force him to his knees.

"You've got about two seconds before I get bored," Hamilton says, and it's not a tactic, it's just _true_.

 _Commit_ , Burr tells himself, but he doesn't. And Hamilton leaves.

It's another week before he's had enough to drink that it seems like a better idea. Hamilton's been drinking, too, but he's just as sparkling and unstoppable as ever.

This time they're at Hamilton's place, and this time they're barely in the door before they're fooling around. It could be the alcohol, but Burr knows it's the territory. He can understand how that gives Hamilton an advantage, but then Hamilton's hands are on him and he doesn't care.

"What am I to you, Burr?" Hamilton mutters in his ear.

Burr groans and pulls Hamilton close. He doesn't have an answer.

Hamilton puts the lights out and kisses Burr desperately, feverishly, his hands already undoing Burr's trousers.

"Shit, slow down," Burr whispers. He presses Hamilton against the wall and kisses him till he shuts up, or at least until he can only murmur into Burr's mouth. He pushes his knee between Hamilton's legs and then roughly turns him around.

He gets his hands planted on either side of Hamilton's body and pushes himself flush against Hamilton's back so Hamilton can feel how hard he is. He grinds against him, his cock rubbing against Hamilton's ass through his clothes. He can feel Hamilton's gasp.

"Have you ever done this before?" he whispers in Hamilton's ear.

Hamilton's breath hitches. "No.

"None of it? Tell me what you've done."

Hamilton squirms and curses under his breath. "Kissing, of course. Plenty of that."

"And?" He leans his weight against Hamilton.

" _God_." Hamilton hisses through his teeth. "Okay. I've used my mouth. And vice versa. And jerking off together. Is that enough for you?"

"How much is _true_ , Alexander? There's no shame in it." Is Hamilton a virgin? The thought is so good and Burr grinds against Hamilton again.

Hamilton whines. " _Fuck_. I've never done this. But I want you to do it to me. Please."

And somehow, even when Burr is fucking Hamilton, even when Hamilton is _begging_ , he doesn't feel like he's won. It's probably something to do with the way Hamilton shrugs the whole thing off afterwards. He doesn't look concerned about God, or prison, or what Burr might think of the noises he made. He just seems pleased.

As for Burr, as soon as he gets home, he prays for an hour. Then he jerks off thinking about the way Hamilton felt. Hamilton is not the first man with whom Burr has performed these unspeakable acts, but he is the best.

In the following weeks, Burr learns a series of things, much to his frustration: Hamilton will not be controlled or bound to him alone. Hamilton has no shame and is therefore impossible to control. Whatever Hamilton feels for Burr, he feels it even more for himself.

But what Burr has with Hamilton is something he has with no one else.

(Whatever _else_ Burr may or may not have had with anyone else they know is his own business and not something he plans to revisit.)

More often than not, when he wants to pull Hamilton into an alley (he's swiftly losing track of how to be safe), he finds the man already occupied. He's either hanging all over Laurens or writing impassioned letters to James Madison. Burr can't just take what he wants, and that's new.

But Hamilton does keep coming back.

Almost every night, Burr walks home through the clear summer air feeling powerful and alive as he never has before. Something is beginning, and he's not sure what it will be yet.

**1800**

Burr's pistol is as clean as it will ever be. He hasn't slept all night, and the fire is out. He's been turn his options over and over in his mind, looking for the sanest, most rational choice, but he keeps coming up empty.

Hamilton is ruined, _is_ a ruin, so what does it matter if Burr kills him? His wife is better off without him. And his children will be fine, but Theodosia has nothing if Burr dies. (Besides, Burr's going to be president next time. He's so close.)

No matter how he says it to himself, it doesn't sit right. But he's got a desk full of bitter, vicious, unkind letters from Hamilton, a man who has never held back, so why should he let that stop him?

No more waiting. Hamilton has forced him into taking action, and this is what happens when Burr makes the first move.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! About the years: I have fudged some of them, because the musical's timeline isn't really the same as ~reality's~ timeline. So the years here are probably accurate to neither, but at least they keep the story in the right order!


End file.
